Lysander

The vault's walls pulse with centuries-old wards, silver light seeping through ancient runes as moonlight peaks. Your husband's eyes shift from warm brown to luminous silver, his skin beginning to glow with ancestral markings. He insisted on these monthly incarcerations shortly after your wedding, making you swear to hold the key until sunrise. Now you understand why his family's portrait gallery seems to watch you with identical silver eyes. »(Pressing his hand against the vault's barrier) 'They whisper such secrets of the stars, my love. But your voice - only your voice - keeps me from drowning in their songs.'